


Nostalgia

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Dom/sub, Established Relationship, M/M, Minor Violence, No Plot/Plotless, Orgasm Delay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:14:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1914090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'I get so damn hung up on not hurting you that I start to lose track of who you are, and who I am.'" Justin finds Giriko in a nostalgic mood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nostalgia

For once, Justin has no idea what he did.

It doesn’t even have to be his fault. It’s just that usually when Giriko gets like this it’s because Justin drove him to it, even if the chainsaw doesn’t realize he’s being led. And the blond’s not opposed to it, by any means. But Giriko was on him as soon as the front door was open, before Justin’s shoes were off, before the door was even closed, and when Justin gets free long enough to start, “Why --” Giriko cuts him off with a growl.

“Get your pants off if you want them intact.”

This time that’s enough to override the desire to see what Giriko will do if he doesn’t. The chainsaw doesn’t let him go while he works his feet free and pulls his fly open; Giriko’s hands stay too-tight at his waist, the chainsaw’s teeth clip Justin’s neck until the blond is sure there will be marks to cover tomorrow, and Justin is barely stepping free of his pants before Giriko lifts him bodily off his feet to move him towards the bedroom.

Justin hisses in surprise more than anger, but Giriko takes the sound as more resistance than he intends and shifts his mouth, bites down hard enough on the priest’s skin that Justin jerks and they nearly both fall as Giriko continues down the hallway.

“Hold  _still_ ,” the chainsaw hisses, kicking the bedroom door open in lieu of actually putting Justin down.

“I think I’m bleeding,” Justin says by way of response, lifting a hand from where he was bracing himself on Giriko’s shoulder to touch the ache at his neck.

“Blood looks good on you,” Giriko says, and then he shoves Justin back so the blond goes stumbling in a desperate attempt to catch his balance. He doesn’t, but he doesn’t need to; he slams into the bed hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs, but it’s better than falling.

“Get down on the floor,” Giriko says from the doorway. He’s standing in front of the entrance, staring at Justin with his eyes gone dark and shadowy, and Justin’s still not sure if he’s angry or aroused or both -- it’s always hard to tell, with Giriko -- but even his rarely-used sense of self-preservation is kicking in, now, buckling his knees for him so he hits the wood floor hard enough to bruise even before he starts to collect his remaining clothing in his hands so he can pull it off over his head in anticipation of Giriko’s next order.

The chainsaw isn’t even looking as Justin strips off his robes and undershirt and rocks back to sit on his heels. He’s crossing the room to the dresser to retrieve the lube and come back; he’s even still got his  _boots_  on. Usually Justin huffs and complains about the other man wearing shoes in the house, but just at the moment the fact that he’s entirely exposed while Giriko hasn’t even taken his shoes off is of enough interest that the idea of complaining never crosses his mind.

Giriko growls as he steps in alongside Justin -- it could be in protest, though Justin is confident he’s done exactly what the chainsaw asked so it’s probably due instead to whatever aggressive want prompted this in the first place. There’s not much point in complaining, not when his current state of undress makes his interest perfectly clear, but he  _is_  curious, starts to restate his original question as he watches Giriko move behind him.

“What brought this --” is as far as he gets before there’s a shove between his shoulderblades, hard enough that he barely gets his hands out to save himself from hitting the floor with him face.

“Shut up,” Giriko hisses, dragging his nails back down along Justin’s spine so the blond can feel red welts rising in their wake. “Stay down, and stay quiet,  _Justin_.” He’s making the word a hiss, firing it with the irritation lacing through the rest of his voice, and that tone wrapped around his name goes straight to Justin’s cock, as if he wasn’t already going hard with alarming rapidity.

There’s the sound of the bottle opening, a pause while Giriko presumably pours the liquid over his fingers. Then a hand closes on Justin’s hip, pulls him up a little higher over his knees while Giriko shoves a knee between his to angle him wider, and cool fingers slide against his skin as the chainsaw starts talking.

“I got to thinking.” Justin has several retorts to that on the tip of his tongue but he refrains from voicing them, focuses on breathing instead in anticipation of the threat and the promise of that chill touch. “Seeing as we’ve got something of a  _commitment_  here.”

There’s a push, sharp and forceful so Justin doesn’t have time to react before two of Giriko’s fingers at once slide into him. He rocks forward involuntarily, whines without meaning to at the intrusion, but Giriko doesn’t slow and doesn’t apologize, just keeps pushing in deeper as he keeps talking. “And look, it’s not the commitment I’m worried about. It’s that I get so damn hung up on not  _hurting_  you that I start to lose track of who you are, and who I am.”

His fingers stop moving. It takes Justin a minute to realize it’s because Giriko’s got them all the way inside the priest, another breath to recognize that the chainsaw’s not moving right away and to be immensely grateful for that. “And I thought I’d see how you liked it like this, the way we used to be.”

The hand at Justin’s hip drops, slides down and around until the chainsaw’s fingers close hard on the blond’s length. Justin’s still focusing on breathing, trying to get his body to relax around Giriko’s fingers before the chainsaw starts moving, and he doesn’t realize that he’s rock-hard until there’s sudden pressure against the flushed skin.

“See,” Giriko voice comes from a long way away, like Justin’s ears are ringing instead of his nerve endings. “I thought you’d be interested.” Then his hand pulls, and Justin jerks involuntarily, the motion rocking him against the chainsaw’s fingers so he shudders at the excess of sensation that hits him. It’s still too much, still flashing burning hot and not quite pleasant, but his heartrate is speeding as if to catch up and if Giriko just gives him another few seconds…

He doesn’t, of course, and Justin isn’t even surprised when the hand tight around his length goes still and the fingers inside him draw back. He’s prepared for the motion, expecting the thrust forward, but it’s still a shock, still sends heat ricocheting under his skin until he’s moaning, dropping down to the floor with no chance to restrain or change his reaction.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Giriko says. It takes Justin a moment to realize his fingers are digging into his palms, that he’s made desperate fists for lack of anything better to do with his hands, and then another breath before he can get his hold to relax. “This is still easier than the first time, I thought I was never gonna fit inside you.”

Justin remembers as well as Giriko does, probably better in general if the specifics are lost in the haze of intense physicality. He remembers the pain just from Giriko’s fingers, the way it felt when the chainsaw pushed his way in too soon and too hard, the fact that he didn’t even realize he was grinding himself down against the couch until Giriko laughed and reached around to stroke over him. The memory is even better than now, better than the almost-pain of the present because Justin can remember the sharp burn of the past, the reality of too-much that went right past rational judgment and into some deeper part of himself.

He must rock forward, or maybe it’s just the rush of blood to his cock that tips Giriko off. Either way the chainsaw chuckles behind him, sets his grip on Justin’s length steady and unmoving, and says, “I forgot how into this you are.” There’s pressure at Justin’s shoulder, lips or teeth or both, and Giriko purrs, “Go ahead, Justin, you know you  _want_  to.”

Justin does know. Reason is telling him to stop but his blood is demanding more, more, more, and when he takes a breath he knows perfectly well which one will win out even before he rocks his hips forward into Giriko’s hold and then back onto the chainsaw’s fingers. It’s an awkward movement, the angle isn’t quite right so Justin can’t get the right friction or the pressure where he wants it, but it’s better than holding still and from how flushed his skin feels he doesn’t need  _right_ , just  _some_. So he keeps going, finds an almost-rhythm that might be enough, and he’s starting to think he’s got it when Giriko lets his cock go entirely.

Justin huffs in irritation and desperation both, drops his weight down onto one elbow so he can take over himself. Sometimes that makes Giriko hiss, sometimes it makes the chainsaw shove him down to the floor and jerk him off himself; today it just makes him laugh as he slides his hand back.

“Getting desperate?” he asks, and Justin would try to deny it except that when he hears the sound of Giriko’s zipper pulling open he whimpers before he realizes that’s the sound he’s going to make, shifts his knees wider in unspoken invitation, and after that it seems somewhat pointless to make any protest. He gets contact for his efforts, at least, the touch of Giriko’s hand against the back of his leg though nowhere near where he wants it while there’s the shift of denim from behind the blond. “I won’t keep you waiting.”

Justin knows he won’t -- he knows  _that_ , at least, about the other man -- but that one point of contact from Giriko’s hand is starting to go hot, his breathing is coming faster now that he’s got his grip where it needs to be instead of deliberately off-kilter, and when he slides his thumb up over himself he shudders and gives up entirely on restraint.

“Hey.” That’s Giriko again, sounding faintly irritated now. “Slow the fuck down, kid.”

Justin ignores him. That, right there; that’s the right angle, the right pace, he’s too far gone now to make himself stop, he doesn’t care about Giriko’s hiss of frustration or whether the chainsaw’s going to make it inside him before he comes or  _anything_ , really, except that --

Fingers close on his wrist, jerk his hand away, and Justin wails in wordless protest and tries to get his other hand down instead, even if he’s less skilled with his non-dominant hand it doesn’t  _matter_ , he just needs  _something_. But Giriko’s grabbing at his other wrist too, pinning his hands flat to the floor and keeping him there even as the chainsaw’s weight rocks forward heavy over Justin.

“Fucking hell, you’re  _desperate_ ,” Giriko growls. He’s pressing up against the blond, his cock is slippery against Justin’s skin, and when Justin tries to wiggle free he hisses and shoves harder against him. “Hold the  _fuck_  still and I’ll fuck you, that’s what you want, right?”

Justin goes still, shuts his eyes and tries to breathe past the raw want in his blood. There’s a chuckle over him, a purr of “Good  _boy_ ,” and then Giriko’s leaning back, lining himself up without the assistance of the hands still holding Justin’s wrists to the floor. It’s trickier, there’s a couple false starts, but Justin  _does_  hold still, stops wiggling and stops trying to rock backwards, and then Giriko’s got it, lines himself up and starts to push forward, and Justin is groaning with satisfaction even before the other’s entirely inside him.

Giriko sighs, the exhale loud with relief, and his grip on Justin’s wrists goes a little more gentle, slides up to press against his fingers instead of his joints. Justin lets his head fall forward, takes a deep breath at at least the promise of sensation, and then Giriko slides back and thrusts forward again and Justin’s fingers jerk to scratch uselessly at the floor.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Justin gasps. “How the  _fuck_  did you know where--”

“As if I don’t know how you like it.” Giriko cuts him off, demonstrates by rocking forward so the pressure of his cock sends another wash of heat over Justin’s skin. “Give me some  _fucking_  credit, it’s not like you don’t  _like_  being used.”

That is true. There’s no point in denying it, not when Justin’s so hard he’s pretty sure he’d come from the brush of Giriko’s fingers on him, not when the feel of Giriko’s zipper digging into the back of his legs is flushing his skin with arousal as much as self-consciousness. He tips his head down farther, lets his shoulders slump until he can press his forehead against the cool floor, and Giriko leans in to match him, rocks forward until his weight is pressing the blond’s hands flat to the floor and he can find an easy rhythm to his thrusts. It’s enough, if not yet as much as Justin  _wants_ ; at least he can breathe around the want, now, can shut his eyes and let the sensation flood in waves through his blood.

“I love that you love this,” Giriko says, sounding breathless and rough but sincere. Justin is certain that if he turned his head the chainsaw would be flushing with self-consciousness at this unprecedented declaration of affection, however layered he’s managed to make it. So he doesn’t turn, and he doesn’t speak except to let his exhales pick up an undercurrent of moaning as Giriko pushes into him, and after a moment the chainsaw keeps talking, a little more easily this time. “I love that you could stop me and you don’t. I  _love_  how fucking hard this gets you, until you’re crying for me to touch you or me to fuck you or just  _me_ , somehow, anyway you can get me.” He takes a breath. “I love that you want me so fucking bad.”

Justin can’t breathe. This is new, this is novel in a way that is prickling his skin chill with shock to counteract the rising heat from the raw physical sensation, and he doesn’t know what to say and isn’t sure he  _can_  say anything without shattering whatever bizarre circumstances have led to this. So he keeps his head down and his eyes shut, and he doesn’t try to speak, just twists his wrist sharply so his hand turns palm-up under Giriko’s.

For a moment there’s silence. Even the rhythm of the chainsaw’s thrusts stalls for a breath as Justin can feel all his attention focus on the press of their palms together. Then Justin curls his fingers to fit between Giriko’s, rocks slightly backwards to remind the other man of what they’re  _doing_ , and Giriko growls and closes his hand on Justin’s as if he can make up for the gesture by sheer force.

Justin doesn’t care. Giriko’s fingers are laced into his, Giriko’s words thrumming in his mind, and he’s still lost in the warmth of the gesture when the chainsaw comes forward at  _just_  the right angle, triggering a rush of heat Justin doesn’t see coming.

“Oh,” he says, “ _fuck_ \--” His throat closes, turns the words into a groan, his fingers jerk into a desperate hold, and he’s coming all over the floor while his mind plays back over  _I love I love I love_  in Giriko’s voice.

“Jesus,” Giriko is says when the first wave of pleasure has passed. “I didn’t even  _touch_  you.”

Justin chokes on a laugh, deliberately tightens his hold on Giriko’s hand until the chainsaw hisses. “Shut the fuck up,Giriko.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Giriko snaps back, but it’s more teasing than anything, and he doesn’t pull his hand free. Justin can hear the ragged shake under even the habitual viciousness in his voice, can feel the tension rising in the other’s fingers without even looking. It’s like he’s plugged into the chainsaw’s reactions directly, like he’s fitting just under the other man’s skin to borrow his responses secondhand. So he knows what’s coming, is smiling against the floor even before Giriko growls and lets his other wrist go to grab Justin’s hip, and when the chainsaw shoves forward and groans Justin can feel the satisfaction in his fingertips as much as hear it in the sound.

Justin lets go first. It seems safer, in the end, to extricate his fingers while Giriko is still panting in the aftershocks of orgasm and before he’s had a chance to think too hard about the affection of the gesture. The priest gets to his feet before Giriko too, stands looking down at the other man with all the dignity he can muster with bruised knees and sticky skin.

Giriko looks up at him through his hair, bares the sharp edges of his teeth in warning. “Don’t say a  _fucking_  word.”

Justin doesn’t speak. He doesn’t laugh, either, and he doesn’t reach out to touch Giriko’s face like he wants to. But he does let his eyes drop to Giriko’s mouth, lets his lips frame out the shape of the words he wants to say --  _I love you too_. Then he turns, makes for the bathroom before he’s seen more than the first tinge of embarrassed pink in Giriko’s cheeks.

He doesn’t need to see, any more than he needs to say it. He’s pretty sure they both know anyway.


End file.
